


Down and out

by MouseWhymp (aries_taurus)



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Food Poisoning, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Steve McGarrett, Sickfic, Vomit, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 07:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/pseuds/MouseWhymp
Summary: The slight sick feeling had been there since he’d woken up, just under the surface, just enough for him to feel it and ruin any idea of having a pleasant day off.Or the one where Steve gets food poisoning and Danny shows up to care for him, even if Steve doesn't want any help.





	Down and out

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a request from someone who wants to remain anon.
> 
> So, anon, this is just for you. I hope I did justice to what you wanted. Not beta read. Mistakes all mine.
> 
> EDIT: Pseud is so ANON can find this, as this is the pseud I use where anon found me to request this. Not my usual writing, but I find it a) flattering to get a request and b) if someone has the guts to ask for a story from someone, I think I can make the effort to go outside my comfort zone a bit to fulfill someone's wish. I hope this does.
> 
> GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF VOMIT. BE WARNED.

* * *

 

 

The slight sick feeling had been there since Steve had woken up, just under the surface, just enough for him to feel it and ruin any idea of having a pleasant day off. The headache that had appeared after breakfast hadn’t really helped either but the vague more-than-heartburn-less-than-nausea feeling had been the most disrupting factor, making his temper short and his efforts unproductive.

He’d eaten an early lunch despite the discomfort; he’d been hoping food would make it go away, drown out what was pissing off his stomach.

It hadn’t.

Quite the opposite; an hour later, it was slowly, inexorably getting worse. It was now really starting to bother him, making him think not only eating had been a bad idea but a return of his last meal was possibly in his near future. It was just past noon and it was getting hot, making him feel even worse.

The entrails of the Marquis were strewn in disarray around him and the need to fix the manifold leak was evaporating with the mounting nausea. So much for a relaxing Saturday. He huffed out a frustrated growl and tossed the wrench in his hand onto the workbench.

He didn’t bother to put his tools away before he shuffled inside, going straight up to his bedroom with the intent of taking a nap. He was hoping some rest would help his body work through whatever it was that was making him feel this cruddy. He detoured by the bathroom with a shower in mind but once he’d cleaned the grease off his hands, it suddenly seemed to require more energy than he had. He retreated to his bedroom and fell onto his mattress with a disgruntled grumble.

Only, sleep wouldn’t come.

He ended up half-sitting against the headboard, trying to read and not making sense of the words on the page. Acid bubbled in his throat, a wet burp rumbling out of his mouth, bringing with it a sour aftertaste.

In fact, the I-feel-kinda-like-I-might-puke feeling he’d been nursing for hours was suddenly fast moving right past the I-think-I’m-gonna stage into the oh-fuck-I’m-gonna territory. He pushed off the bed and moved to the bathroom, pausing by the counter and leaning on it. His mirror image looked pale, gray going on green.

His stomach chose that moment to suddenly cramp hard, as if two hands were squeezing it as hard as they could. He hissed in pain as sweat broke out all over. He suddenly felt hot and faint, unpleasant uneven waves sloshing the painful organ. A particularly nasty one had him leaning over the sink in sudden panic as his throat suddenly felt oily and thick, the nausea surging spectacularly.

Oh, god… He was going to puke, without a shadow of doubt. But as soon as the thought formed, he felt his stomach relax and… Maybe not. Or… Another surge of nausea stirred his innards and… Yeah.

He moved towards the toilet, a hand grasping the counter, the other pushing the seat up. He leaned over the bowl as saliva pooled under his tongue. He swallowed thickly a few times, feeling absolutely wretched. Slow minutes ticked by and he felt inexorably worse as each elapsed.

He thought of the scrambled eggs he’d had a couple hours ago, cursing the stupidity of eating when he felt off. At least it wouldn’t hurt his throat too much if it came back up, he thought blearily.

His stomach gurgled and flipped in an oh-so terribly unpleasant way.

Not if. When.

The nausea suddenly became overwhelmingly strong, making him feel woozy. He braced a hand on the raised toilet seat to steady himself, groaning with the feeling.

His stomach bubbled and sloshed, making his mouth water profusely and more sweat pearl on his brow. He belched, loud and abrupt, doubling over the toilet. His heart suddenly went into overdrive with something akin to fear. He had no clue why he felt like that whenever he was about to throw up; as if doing so was worse than death, something he should dread. Oh god, he felt faint, about to pass out.

His stomach roiled heavily and a strange tingling went up his spine, blossoming into an intense lightheadedness.

“Urgh...” He muttered as the room seemed to fuzz around him. He felt his throat open up, the roof of his mouth pushing upward and more saliva spurted under his tongue, flooding his mouth.

He spat out the watery slime, huffing with the mounting discomfort. He was going to puke. Oh god, he was gonna hurl. Drool dripped from his mouth into the toilet as he panted, the dizziness and nausea cresting.

His stomach flopped like a dying fish and he coughed at the weird sensation in his throat. He burped, tasting vomit.

“Erk…” he gagged and gulped, desperation kicking in. He didn’t want to… hated it, loathed it, even but…. Ohgodohgodohgodhewasgonna….

He retched loudly, liquid rising in his throat and splashing against his palate to gush out his mouth, clouding the toilet water a sickly beige.

He spat and his innards heaved, his abdomen caving inward forcefully. A gurgling retch surged up his throat and his stomach flooded up his esophagus and out his mouth in a long, drawn out effort, a deluge of barely digested eggs spilling into the toilet, turning the water into a murky beige-yellow, the stench immediately oppressive.

He coughed and belched wetly, the sound loud in the small room. His stomach gargled and he threw up again, more abundantly, doubling over with the strain, a torrent of vomit splashing into the toilet. He spat and exhaled as his stomach contracted again.

He curled tightly on himself as his stomach ejected another thick stream of acidic slop, the heavy rancid smell burning his sinuses.

He spat and panted, moaning as an oceanic surge flipped his stomach and propelled it up his throat in another loud heave.

He forced his mouth open as wide as he could as he vomited, the contraction lasting for what felt like an eternity. It was as if his esophagus and mouth weren’t big enough for the tsunami his stomach was attempting to reject. Interminable seconds passed and finally, finally he could breathe again. He sucked in a greedy gulp of air that dislodged the remnants in his throat, choking him. He coughed and hacked until his stomach contorted again.

A thick paste of yellow chunks poured from his mouth to join the mess in the toilet, spatter flying everywhere from the force of it. He spat, feeling tears streaking down his face, mucus dripping out his nose and still open mouth. He spat again and swallowed, trying to catch his breath. His stomach slowly relaxed and settled, leaving him drained and sore but feeling better, relieved even.

He spat out as much of the foul tasting film in his mouth as he could, wiping his chin and lips with a hand. He frowned in disgust at the slime on his palm and grabbed some toilet paper instead. He wiped his face, blew his nose and flushed away the mess before attempting to uncurl his body and lift his head up.

His abdomen felt sore and his throat was on fire but at least the nausea was gone and he felt mostly better. Wrung out, a bit faint, but better.

He stood and turned to the sink and leaned both elbows on the counter, chin to his chest for a few beats. He turned on the cold water and rinsed his mouth before taking a couple sips. It settled all right so he grabbed his toothbrush and made use of it, not quite managing to obliterate the lingering taste of vomit from his mouth. It was like the foulness had seeped into his tongue and gums. His throat still burned but he didn’t dare drink more water yet.

He headed towards his bed with ideas of a long nap but he stumbled halfway there, a wave of dizziness swamping him. He threw his arm out and leaned on his dresser as his phone came to life, startling him.  He jumped, catching himself on the nightstand before he could fall flat on his face. He sat on the bed and pressed the answer key, not even sure who he was talking to.

“McGarrett.”

“Where are you?”

Danny. He glanced at his watch. Shit. He’d completely forgotten. He was supposed to pick him up, go surfing…

“Steve?”

“I, uh… I’m home. I won’t be able to join you. We’ll have to re-schedule okay?”

“Why? You…” he could hear Danny switch gears on the fly. He knew patently well he sounded awful. “What’s wrong? You sound sick. Are you sick?”

“Something came up. I’m sorry,” he answered. Yeah, something came up all right; his lunch. “I gotta go.” He hung up, turned his phone off and collapsed backwards onto the mattress, completely exhausted.

He was dozing and not really surprised when he heard his front door open about twenty minutes later. He ignored it.

“Go away,” he called weakly.

He wasn’t surprised either when the bedroom door opened, Danny barging into his room. Just as he did, Steve’s stomach tightened and cramped. Nausea suddenly surged to life.

“I knew it. You’re sick. Ack! What is that _smell_? Did you throw up?”

Steve struggled to his side, curling around his still-aching stomach. “Yeah. And I’m starting to think I’m going to, again. So just… go ‘way, Danny,” he said through clenched teeth. His stomach really _was_ starting to clench and hurt again. He could feel his innards coiling and bubbling. He could feel the contractions going from his navel upward and he could still _vividly_ remember the human physiology course he’d been submitted to in flight school. It had included a detailed session on the physiology and mechanics of motion sickness, nausea and vomiting. With video.

He knew _exactly_ what was going on inside of him and how it would end.

He burped, swallowed thickly and burped again.

A strange ache began to pulse between his eyes and grew from there. He felt the rush of lightheadedness as his blood pressure dropped and nausea rose. He felt both overheated and freezing, cold sweat breaking all over. _Diaphoresis,_ he recalled.

“Danny, go,” he pleaded, getting to his feet and heading towards the en suite bathroom, his mouth beginning to water.

 _Once hypersalivation begins, it’s almost impossible to stop the vomiting cascade reflex._ He knelt on the floor this time, one hand braced on the edge of the bowl, head hanging low, taking slow, shallow breaths, exhaling in a huff. God, he felt sick. His stomach gurgled and more saliva spurted under his tongue. He hiccupped and burped, spitting out the slime in his mouth.

He couldn’t muster the energy to be annoyed Danny wasn’t leaving. He was at the point of not caring if he stayed because he was going to puke and if Danny wanted to witness that, well it was all on him, so long as he didn’t sympathy-hurl on his bedroom rug.

 “Ugh,” he murmured as his innards swam and bucked. “Ooooh…” He leaned forward and hawked out another mouthful of spit into the toilet as Danny stood in his bathroom door.

“Danny, I’m sick. Just leave me be, okay?” he asked weakly. “Uhg…” It felt like his skin was crawling with ants but he was shivering with cold sweats and he was dizzy with nausea. He hated puking but feeling like this was almost worse than the actual vomiting. “Ugh… Oh… god I hate this…”

He heard Danny move to the sink and the water run. His guts glugged and sloshed, his innards turning into what felt like a gelatinous mass of eels. He bent over the bowl, pushing the seat up with one hand as another flush of heat rose through him, throat spasming. He felt a sickening gargle under his ribs and he groaned . His stomach bubbled and suddenly felt fuller, distended, uncomfortable, bubbling with gas like the caldera of a volcano. The feeling of fullness increased to the point of pain. _The great retrograde contraction sends duodenal contents into the stomach, its pH somewhat neutralizing the acidity of the gastric contents. The influx of intestinal matter augments gastric volume and facilitates expulsion._

He leaned over the toilet water, burped and spat.

He groaned, going cold, mouth open over the bowl. He felt the color draining from his face in a rush. Saliva dripped from his parted lips as his stomach shifted abruptly upward, burbling and glugging. His throat suddenly felt oily and thick.

 _The duodenal sphincter closes about 45 seconds before retching begins, forcing the stomach content towards the esophageal sphincter, which relaxes to allow passage of the vomitus._ His stomach twisted hard, the nausea turning into a sudden urge to vomit.

He gagged, the effort loud and disgustingly guttural. He coughed and gagged again with nothing to show for it. _The retching phase builds pressure in the upper chest to assure effective gastric emptying._

He felt his gut crush inward and he curled over the toilet. _The expulsion phase begins with the sudden relaxation of the diaphragm and corresponding contracture of the abdominal muscles._

“Erk…” He burped again, a disgusting wet sound that abruptly turned into a wet heave.  A wave of stringy yellow-tinted mucus splashed into the toilet. He spat out he remnants and hung there, moaning and panting, strands of thick goo dripping from his mouth into toilet for what felt like endless minutes, his innards coiling and snaking like worms.

“Uh… Ugh…Fuck…”

He started at the gentle hand on his back.

He dry-heaved again before spewing more acid-laced mucus into the toilet. He panted and spat, his stomach still hovering in the back of his throat. He belched and burped, drool dribbling from his mouth in a steady stream.

His stomach tightened harshly and he abruptly vomited, tasting the bitterness of coffee on his tongue. Breakfast.

He dry heaved a couple times and threw up the rest of his breakfast which has apparently sat, partly undigested, all day, waiting to be expelled.

“Oh… god, I hate this,” he moaned.

“It’s okay. Here.”

He felt something cold on the back of his neck and he closed his eyes. It helped some but god, he felt like crap.

He dry heaved, sucked in a breath and vomited a thin wave of liquid. He dry retched three or four times, the pain in his gut ratcheting up. He didn’t have time to breathe as his stomach convulsed again. This time, the heaving wasn’t timid and unproductive, on the contrary. A spectacularly long, thick stream of lumpy slop flew from his mouth into the toilet, the force of if sending puke splattering onto the rim and the floor, into his face and possibly his hair. _Projectile vomiting is brought on by overabundant retching efforts, causing excessive pressure on the diaphragm. When released, this excess of pressure is transferred to the stomach, thereby applying more force to the expulsion of the vomitus, which can be cast several feet from the body._

He gulped and threw up another abundant wave, albeit not as violently while Danny’s hand still rubbed slow circles on his back.

He hung there, breathing harshly, spit, puke and tears on his face, just trying to control his breathing. Danny kept gently rubbing his back. It reminded him a bit of how his mother would care for him when he got sick. He screwed his eyes shut, willing the memory away. He coughed and spat. He groaned as he saw bits and strings of green swimming into the mess in the bowl. He’d already vomited lunch and breakfast and now he was onto last night’s dinner if the remnants of green were anything to go by. He stopped contemplating his situation as he threw up again, another stream of brownish-yellow slop noisily splashing into the bowl.

He swallowed reflexively against the slick feeling in his throat as saliva poured into his mouth before a bout of dry heaves sliced through him, until he belched and vomited a few mouthfuls of frothy, greenish bile. He spat and swallowed hard a few times, trying to breathe slowly. After another minute of quivering, his stomach began to uncoil and settle.

“Better?”

He sat back on his heels and wiped his nose with a hand. “Yeah.” He grabbed some toilet paper and blew his nose.

He grabbed some more paper, wiped his face and the toilet before swiping the few stains on the floor.

“You good?” Danny asked from behind him.

“Yeah,” he said roughly, flushing the toilet and getting to his feet. He stumbled a little, dizzy. Danny’s solid form caught him and supported him, guiding him towards his bedroom. He let himself drop onto the bed and curled on his side, arms loosely around his aching stomach. He was wrung out, exhausted.

He was just about to doze off when he felt Danny’s hand on his shoulder.

“Hey. You should drink some water.”

He blinked wearily and bushed himself up on one elbow, accepting the glass of water Danny was offering. “Thanks.”

He took a few careful sips and handed Danny the water back, closing his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Dizzy,” he breathed out, feeling sudden sweat bead all over his body. He groaned and dropped back to the bed, feeling as if the whole thing was in an uneven flat spin.

“You’re sweatin’ like a pig,” Danny grumbled, putting a hand on his forehead. He didn’t have the energy to shrug off the touch.

“You have a fever. You’re hotter than the Nevada desert in July.”

He mumbled some sort of acknowledgement and froze as his innards suddenly rumbled. Something rose in his throat and he barely had time to scramble to get his head over the side of the bed, Danny scrambling back, out of the line of fire.

He thanked every god in the sky when the only thing erupting from his mouth was the world’s nastiest, loudest, foulest-tasting burp. His stomach unclenched and settled, the crisis seemingly averted.

He swallowed and rolled back onto the bed, closing his eyes. “Ugh.”

“Oh god, that was nasty. Smells like rotten eggs. You gonna puke again?”

“No. I’m… okay. And tastes like it too... Danny… what are you still doing here?”

“Drink some more water and I’ll leave you to suffer in peace, all right? I’ll be downstairs. Yell if you need something.”

“Didn’t answer my question.” Okay. Maybe that had come out a little snappish.

“I was worried about my friend so I checked up on him. He doesn’t have anyone to take care of him so I thought I’d offer some comfort. Sorry if I overstepped my bounds.”

He felt Danny get up swiftly from the bed and heard the heavy footsteps heading for the door.

“Danny wait.”

“What.” Danny’s tone was angry. Hurt.

“I’m sorry. You know I’m not good at being… vulnerable. And right now, I feel pretty damned vulnerable. Don’t think I’d be able to get up even if I wanted to.”

He heard Danny’s long exhale. “Okay. I can accept that.”

He opened his eyes and found Danny staring at him, worry etched over his features. “Thanks for checking up on me but I’ll be fine.”

“Sure. I’ll check up on you in a bit, all right? I will still be downstairs.”

Something niggled at his mind as he heard Danny walk down the stairs, so he called out. “Danny?”

“Yeah babe?” he said, walking back into the door.

“Where’s Grace?”

Danny chuckled. “Home with Rachel. She came down with a stomach bug early this morning.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I was hoping it wasn’t that octopus poke you two shared but I had a feeling.”

“She okay?” he asked opening his eyes slowly and trying to sit up. He gave up when the room swam around him. He dropped to the bed with a grunt.

“Yeah. You’re about 12 hours behind so you should be feeling better by morning.”

“Hm.” He forced his arm to move and grab the water off the nightstand where Danny had left it. He drank it in small measured sips but he drank it all, figuring he’d need the hydration.

“Thanks Danny. I appreciate you checking in on me. Don’t waste your Saturday afternoon. I’ll just get some sleep.”

Danny gave him a half-amused smile. “My daughter’s sick and my best friend is too. Grace has her mom to take care of her and I got nothing better to do, so I’ll steal your beer and watch ESPN in your living room, where you can call out if you need something and ignore me if you don’t.”

“Fine, whatever,” Steve capitulated. Just as he did, his lower abdomen gave an unhappy rumble and he literally felt his intestines turn to jelly, bubbling and shifting until he was hit with sharp cramps and a pressing need, leaving no uncertainty in his mind as to what was coming.

“Owwww. F… Help me up,” he asked breathlessly.

“You gonna puke again?”

“No,” he hissed pointedly, teeth clenched. “The shits.”

“Right. Nothing halfway with you, is there?”

He grunted, teeth clenched. This. Sucked.

Danny grabbed his arm, helped into the bathroom and left him to suffer the indignity in peace. The content of his entrails had turned to a vile, watery soup he spent long minutes noisily expelling. He sat there for even longer, waiting for the cramping to subside, praying the rising nausea would stop growing or at least keep until he could get his ass off the toilet. The stench of what was coming out of said ass Wasn’t. Helping. At. All.

The runs finally let up but he barely had time to clean up and flush before his stomach clenched and rebelled anew. He was out of time. He tried to stand and turn to face the toilet, boxers halfway down his legs, but he stumbles halfway through, his legs too weak to hold him up.

He heaved, helpless to stop it. The effort was loud and painful; a hot, violent rush of acidic vomit rose in his esophagus, hit his palate and flooded his wide open mouth before spilling out everywhere;  he floor, the toilet seat, the side of the counter, the bathmat…

He didn’t get the chance to catch his breath or to contemplate the humiliation before the next spasm hit. He crashed to his knees, and pushed the soiled seat up, a squirt of bile landing on the floor with a splat before he could lean over the bowl.

He whimpered and panted, his stomach riddled with sharp cramps. He hovered over the bowl, clutching at his abdomen with one hand, the other holding him up out of the disgusting toilet.

The nausea wasn’t letting up. Saliva dripped out of his mouth as he hung there, huffing and moaning.

“Steve? Y’all right?”

“No,” he groaned just before he was thrown forward by a violent bout of dry heaves.

When the contractions stopped, he sucked in a few breaths, each a cry of pain, only to have his stomach suddenly crush in on itself. Vomit exploded out of him, the violent spray splashing up the sides of the toilet and it felt like his throat and mouth weren’t big enough to expel whatever was apparently left inside his body.

It hurt. God, it hurt so bad…

The next reprieve lasted a bit longer but his body still had more to reject.

He coughed, belched harshly and vomited three more times in quick succession before his gut finally settled.

He was wiped out, dizzy and too weak to hold himself up anymore. He sort of halfway collapsed back on his heels, sat off to one side and eventually lay down on the vomit-soiled floor, curling into a ball, arms crossed over his aching abdomen.

He closed his eyes and stayed there, just breathing, resting as the pain slowly subsided.

“Steve? Hey, Steve?”

“Hh.” He was tired. Sleepy.

He felt a hand on his shoulder but he couldn’t make himself move.

“C’mon buddy. You can’t sleep on this floor.”

“M’tired.”

“I know. But you need a shower and clean clothes. A three-minute shower and then you can sleep. C’mon, buddy,” Danny repeated. “Can you do that? Steve! Answer me.”

He swallowed painfully and opened his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Can you sit up?”

He nodded weakly and pushed up off the floor to sit up against the tub, head hanging low, elbows on his drawn up knees, eyes closed as the room spun dizzily around him. Staying curled up helped with the pain. The small room was a disaster but he couldn’t muster the energy to care or do anything about it.

“Here.”

He lifted his head up to find Danny offering him a washcloth and a glass of water. “S’ puke everywhere,” he mumbled.

“I know. You’re sick. Happens.”

He nodded his thanks and took the cloth, wiped his face and handed it back. He watched listlessly as Danny let it drop over the largest puddle of vomit on the floor. He couldn’t actually remember ever feeling this bad without being gravely wounded.

 “I know. Drink some water. Just a bit, okay?”

Had he spoke out loud? He took the glass and gave Danny a small nod. “Yeah.”

He sipped the water and he heard the shower turn on. He didn’t dare swallow more than a couple sips of the tepid liquid Danny had given him. He didn’t think he could deal with throwing up again.

“C’mon. Shower’s ready.”

He put the glass down on the floor and struggled to his feet, Danny’s strong grip doing more of the holding than his own muscles.

He stepped into the shower and his mortification was suddenly complete; he felt a wet, slimy squelch between his ass cheeks and top of his thighs; apparently his gut hadn’t held through the violent bout of vomiting. Great. Another humiliation he had to live down. He ducked his head under the spray and rested his forehead against the tiled wall, letting the warm water rinse off the worst of the mess.

He didn’t want to get out, didn’t want to face Danny seeing him at his most vulnerable; naked, covered in sick and shit, wallowing in it on his bathroom floor.

Eventually though, the need to lie down made him move and grab the shower gel. He washed his hair and scrubbed his entire body clean before shutting off the water.

He pushed the door open and the rush of cooler air seeping in made him shiver. He turned to get out and the room suddenly shifted sideways.

“Whoa! Whoa, easy tiger.”

He staggered as the room spun wildly, the edges bleeding darkness, his knees folding. He felt a pair of muscular arms around his back and on his shoulder and he was moving towards his bedroom.

He groaned, dizziness making his head swim. He screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip. God, what the hell had he caught?

He wasn’t sure how it happened but he somehow found himself lying in his bed, Danny tugging clean boxers up his legs and a fresh T-shirt over his head.

“Sleep. There’s a bucket by your pillow so don’t try to get up unless you need to, okay?”

“’Kay.”

“Yell if you need me, okay?”

“Hmm.”

He slept.

\---

He woke up with barely enough time to lean over the side of the bed and the bucket. He had no clue how long he’d been asleep but in that time, his stomach had apparently manufactured more content for him to expel, which he did, in tortuously long and painful spasms.

He was spitting the bitter remnants out of his mouth when Danny appeared in his bedroom door.

“Babe,” he said, sounding almost regretful. “You finished?”

Panting, Steve nodded, eyes closed. He hung there, over the side of the bed, feeling utterly miserable. Danny had only just taken hold of the vomit-soiled pail when his gut gave a low, whining growl.

“Gh…” Steve gasped as his lower abdomen cramped fiercely. “Head,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“Okay. Hold on.”

Danny helped him up and slid at arm around his back, his shoulder under his arm and guided him to his surprisingly clean bathroom, leaving him sitting on the can with the bucket between his feet.

“So we don’t get a repeat of your The Exorcist remake,” Danny commented dryly as he handed Steve the receptacle. Of course, Steve’s answer was to promptly bend over the thing to throw up again, which of course proved too much for the tenuous control he had over his bowels.

He heard the bathroom door close over the sounds of explosive liquid diarrhea, his stomach still hovering halfway up his throat. Wave after wave of drool filled his mouth and he kept spitting it out, swallowing convulsively as his guts continued to writhe and twist with cramps. The horrendous stench made him gag and his stomach bubbled like the caldera of a volcano. The sharp pain in his gut speared upward and he retched, the effort loud and producing only a mouthful of bile.

He coughed and his stomach heaved again but this time all that came up from his rebellious innards was a cavernous belch.

It took longer and a few false starts for his intestines to truly settle. He cleaned up, blew his nose and wiped the tears of effort from his face before standing on shaky legs. He flushed the toilet, leaving the puke bucket on the floor. He leaned against the counter as he washed his hands. He’d barely shut off the water when Danny rapped his knuckles against the door.

“Steve? Need a hand?”

The room was spinning again and he could feel his legs trembling. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice hoarse and brittle. He winced. God, his throat hurt.

The door opened and Danny guided him back to bed in much the same manner as the previous trip, only this time, he insisted Steve drink some rehydration solution. He really, really did not want to but he could already feel dehydration setting in so he didn’t argue and drank the disgusting concoction in small, measured sips before falling back into exhausted slumber.

Of course, the whole thing made a reappearance when he woke up for the second time since Danny’s arrival. He went through the whole cycle again and so it went for hours and hours. He didn’t notice the sun going down, lost in his misery.

He had no clue how long the whole thing lasted but he did notice the sun coming up as Danny dragged him back to bed. Guilt flashed briefly in his mind for keeping his partner up all night.

“M’ sorry,” he mumbled. “Kept you up…”

“Shut up and drink your Gastrolyte.”

He did and fell asleep.

He woke up to bright, midday sunlight and, surprisingly, no nausea, no stomach or gut cramps and a very full bladder.

He tossed off the covers and sat up, waiting for the headrush to pass and for the room to stop tilting around him. He stood carefully and made a slow way to the bathroom, his legs shaky like a newborn colt’s.

He was wiped out by the time he got there so he sat down to pee, turning on the water in the shower.

He washed quickly, holding on to the walls but he felt halfway human by the time he was done. He brushed his teeth, drank a couple glasses of water and went back to his bedroom, only now noticing his partner asleep in the bergère in the corner, the reading lamp on and a magazine lying on his chest.

He changed into clean underwear and sat on the bed before clearing his throat.

“Danny.”

His partner came awake with a start. “Wh. Steve! You okay?”

“Better. Go lie down in the guest room.”

“You showered?”

“Yeah. Like I said. I feel better. I’m going back to sleep and so should you.”

Danny stood, looking barely half-awake. “Yeah. Later.”

He heard his partner shuffle to the guest bedroom as he slipped under the covers.

 

They shared dinner just after sundown: tea and plain toast for Steve and scrambled eggs for Danny. Breakfast for dinner.

Steve still felt worn out and sore but he now at least felt human, enough to remember his embarrassment.

“Danny, listen-”

“Save it, babe. Say thank you, and we’ll both pretend it never happened. And if ever in the future the favour is returned, well…”

“Thanks Danny.”

“Any time.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Let’s.”

 

Fin


End file.
